And now, where were we? Professor Higgins created Eliza and Dr Frankenstein created the Monster. All 130-odd pages of it. There follows an interminable list of other credits acknowledging the efforts of all the quote little people unquote, whom I shall graciously thank in my acceptance speech at the Academy Awards. What happens next is the second switch. Benson has been holed up in a Paris apartment supposedly working on the script for months, but instead has spent the time living it up. Benson has been holed up in a Paris apartment supposedly working on the script for months, but instead has spent the time living it up.
That's all we see of her. A tragic relationship to begin with. Oh, l can't stand girls who say things like that. You must be the new schoolma'am. Gentlemen, while you sit back safely in your air-conditioned offices, we here. Now, please, don't get carried away.
And now, Gillette, if you could quite casually dance me across the floor and over to the gentlemen's lounge. There's a tiny chink in Rick's armour. First, breakfast at a little caf, then we'll dance from one end of Paris to the other, opera at five, then the guards and the singing of the Marseillaise, off to Montmartre for the fireworks, then supper and champagne and, you know, live. So, Miss Simpson, we dissolve. You know perfectly well where. The time has come for you to slap me as hard as you can.
He could explain that now that he's met Gabby he's retiring from the liar-and-a-thief business, and then the lnspector might. To you and your glorious professional know-how. Or l don't think she does. We've only got eight pages. At this magic moment her life has indeed begun. Please, stop, l can't stand it.
And, Rick, resist at all costs your continuous and overwhelming impulse to perform the double-cross. Do you, Miss Simpson, have any idea what will happen? Slowly, Rick continues toward her. Operator, l'd like to place a call to Mr Alexander Meyerheim in Cannes. How long will it take to get out of that tub, into this costume and out to the car? My friend and, in this case, patron and producer Mr Alexander Meyerheim arrives in Paris from Cannes at ten o'clock on. He assures me that he has at this moment 138 glorious pages, which are even now being typed. And now l have to.
Standing windswept and alone on a platform is a mysterious woman in black. He's chased her through thejungle, all that. To the studio, Franois, please. Besides, his name is not Maurice, it's Philippe. He insists on projecting himself into the starring role and relegating me to some minor character. And there, totally oblivious of the torrential rain pouring down upon them, the two fall happily and tenderly into each other's arms.
Oh, my darling, darling boy. Their two bodies now moving as one roll like turbulent breakers crashing on an undiscovered shore. We dissolve slowly and lingeringly. Not starting from scratch, of course. Not those terrible New Wave pictures where nothing happens. But life eventually beginning to imitate art. We've got two great characters.
We've got to give the audience the taste and smell of the real Paris. I see him as curiously unattractive. A chauffeur in white livery leaps out and opens the door. Miss Simpson, l think you should go to bed and get some sleep. The inner reaches of these caverns make an ideal setting for my laboratory. Just one of the hazards of being a famous international wit, which l am. Can l trust you, Gabby? Actually, l think he's very attractive.
Back l go behind the bars, matron in uniform once more, no longer Gabrielle or Gabby but simply. The final, earth-moving, studio-rent-paying, theatre-filling, popcorn-selling. She seats herself at a table at this little caf she goes to. Before l cause you serious. And you came here to write. Your chauffeur is here, sir.